


J'ai Envie de Toi

by dreamofhorses



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, RPF - Fandom
Genre: Birthday Sex, Chocolate Syrup, Dirty Talk, Lingerie, M/M, Massage, Plaid shirts, Sarong, Sexting, Speaking French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 21:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: The result of a group brainstorm wherein I was challenged to see if I could fit all the tags listed above into a single fic that made any sense.You may decide whether I've succeeded.Timmy visits Armie for his birthday at the tail end of Straight White Men's run on Broadway.





	J'ai Envie de Toi

_ Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? Oui, je suis from France. _

 

A grin spreads over Armie’s lips as he reads the text. If he can’t have Timmy here with him on his birthday, a little text in bedroom French is the next best thing. That night’s performance had gone well, Armie has a bottle of his favorite whiskey. Things are looking promising.

 

And then they get just a  _ little bit _ better.

 

Armie’s phone vibrates once more against the counter and he sets his joint in the glass ashtray.  _ Photo message received _ . Are his hands shaking a little as he reaches for his phone? Nah, he probably just needs a beer. He’ll get one after he--

 

_ Fuck. _

 

The photo is of Timmy. Of course, you’d never know that if you didn’t have the shape of his cock memorized, the curves of its head straining against violet silk panties edged in cream-colored lace. Timmy’s clearly holding the phone between his legs with one hand, the other stroking at the base of his cock, long fingers fanning out against the purple fabric. At the top of the picture, where his head would be, a few tell-tale curls are visible, just out of focus. Timmy’s hand was shaking a bit when he took the photo and as soon as Armie realizes that he grows so hard in his jeans he can’t think.

 

_ The problem is the jeans _ , Armie thinks, and with a slight buzz on it seems to make sense. He checks his closet for sweats, or even one of his tracksuits to change into for a little more...flexibility in his fabrics. But for some reason, unbeknownst to him then or now, his eyes land on the folded sarong from Sorry To Bother You, pressed neatly and hanging from a wooden hanger with his dry cleaner’s name stamped on it. And he’s home alone, he’s just gonna have some drinks, maybe FaceTime with Timmy later, but Timmy won’t see what he’s wearing below the waist. He might see what he’s  _ not _ wearing, but at that point it will be too late for Timmy to poke fun at him for the sarong. So he goes for it.

 

He wraps the sarong around his waist, muscle memory kicking in from the set of the film to tie it till it’s neat and comfortable. He kicks the jeans he was wearing into a corner of the closet. The sarong feels like a second skin, close around his waist, and on an impulse he reaches through the front folds and pulls off his boxers too. It’s a humid night in New York, the boxers chafe, and who’s there to see? He catches sight of himself in the full length mirror on the closet door as he exits. His plaid button-up isn’t quite designed to match the sarong, but it’s soft and worn-in and Timmy had given it to him after the film awards in Austin. The sleeves are a little short and Armie can see his hip bones if he raises his arms, but then he can bury his nose in it and find the scent of Timmy there, wrapped up in the strands, and once he can smell that and feel like Timmy might be beside him when he opens his eyes, he doesn’t care how he looks.

 

There’s a knock at the door.

 

Armie’s conditioning kicks in, his automatic politeness that instructs him  _ open the door _ before his analytic side kicks in and says  _ except you’re wearing a sarong, and a plaid shirt a size too small _ . And he doesn’t know what he would have done if there had been a neighbor or a delivery person on the other side. But once he opens the door it doesn’t matter.

 

Because standing there in his hallway is Timmy.

 

Armie doesn’t do the math, doesn’t know how many hours Timmy must have been on a plane, what this meant for his filming schedule, whether this means Timmy saw him perform tonight but if so  _ thank god he’d done well _ . All he knows is that he can have Timmy in his arms right there and then without an ocean between them, and so he does.

 

He grabs him tightly and twirls him around until they’re both in the apartment and he kicks the door shut behind them while Timmy laughs breathlessly into his chest.

 

“Surprised?” Timmy giggles against his chest, and Armie can only identify the word through the hum he feels against his chest and arms.

 

“So, so pleasantly,” Armie hums back in return, and he swears he  _ feels _ Timmy smile in his arms.

 

“Happy birthday,” Timmy murmurs, pulling away slightly. “We finished filming yesterday so I got here as fast as I could.” He slides his index finger around Armie’s hip bone, under the sarong. “Also, I like this. You should wear it more often.” His finger slides lower, fails to find the elastic waistband of any underwear. “Oh yeah. You should  _ definitely _ wear this more often.”

 

“Should I now?” Armie asks, his voice thick from desire and the joint he’s just smoked. “Do tell.”

 

“Oh no, not yet. Not before I give you your birthday present.” Timmy pulls away, leads Armie down the hall toward the bedroom.

 

“Aren’t you my birthday present?” Armie asks teasingly, once they’re through the bedroom door and thus in a place where he can show Timmy what he  _ really  _ wants for his birthday.

 

“Mmmhmm,” Timmy murmurs, “but you didn’t think I’d just get you  _ one _ thing, did you?” He inclines his head toward the bed, and when Armie hesitates Timmy’s voice grows just a  _ little _ firmer. “Lay down.”

 

Armie slides onto the bed on his back, propping himself on his elbows, legs kicked out wide and dangling off either side of the bed. Timmy settles himself between Armie’s legs and starts to unbutton Armie’s borrowed shirt, grinning widely at the feel of his own shirt slowly falling away from Armie’s body. When he gets the shirt fully unbuttoned he trails kisses from the waist of Armie’s sarong up to his collarbone.

 

“As much as I love seeing you this way, you’ve got to turn over for the next part.” Timmy helps Armie out of the shirt when he sits up, then guides Armie to lie on his stomach, arms against his sides. Timmy steps aside and pulls a tiny bottle from the waistband of his gray sweatpants. “I’ve been warming this up for you,” he says teasingly, before he straddles Armie, quickly, his warm thighs in the soft sweatpants bracketing Armie’s hips. 

 

Armie closes his eyes, breathes evenly. There’s nothing else to do when Timmy decides to take control. Armie’s usually the one thinking up the scenes, bringing in props to make Timmy’s eyes light up. But Timmy’s will is a river that usually flows underground, and surfaces every now and then for moments that are inevitable, undeniable, and always for Armie and only Armie. He floats there in the darkness for a moment, until he feels a dribble of oil fall softly as a breath between his shoulder blades.

 

Timmy’s fingers chase it a moment later, rubbing the hot oil into Armie’s skin, fanning out to cover both shoulder blades, sliding up to his neck. Armie gasps a moment later as another thin line of oil makes a perfect “O” around his spine in the center of his back, and for a moment he thinks Timmy’s just drawing random shapes but then he feels an “E” follow it. Then a “T”, then “A”, and then he hears the bottle hit the floor as Timmy chucks it aside and places one hand on either side of Armie’s spine. Timmy leans hard on his hands, slides them to the side and around Armie’s ribs, then back to the center and up over his shoulder blades, then quickly back down, separating his fingers, running them all the way down to the waistband of the sarong.

 

Armie breathes out, becomes nothing but the sensation of Timmy’s hands on him, and the fabric of the sarong against his waist and legs, and the unusual freedom of his cock stiffening under the sarong with no boxers, no jeans or sweatpants to get in the way. Timmy’s hands crisscross over his spine, fingers spread and then together, rubbing the hot oil into his skin, and then Timmy sits back on Armie’s thighs, letting Armie feel his full weight. Armie sighs softly when Timmy stands up fully and comes around to the side of the bed where Armie’s facing. It takes a few seconds for Armie’s eyes to open fully and see Timmy’s face there, expectant.

 

“Hey there,” Armie grins, and Timmy rubs their noses together before pressing a kiss to the side of Armie’s mouth and sitting down beside him. Armie props himself up on one elbow, not daring to touch his back to the bed until he’s wiped off the oil, and grabs Timmy’s head with his other hand to pull him into a deeper and lasting kiss. As Timmy licks into his mouth, arching his tongue over Armie’s, Armie slides his hand down Timmy’s side to the waistband of his gray sweatpants. Figuring this will be akin to Timmy’s discovery earlier that Armie wasn’t wearing underwear, Armie slides one finger over Timmy’s hipbones and under the waistband.

 

_ OH. _

 

Armie’s brain suddenly performs an evening’s worth of calculations and discovers that the lingerie pic Timmy sent him earlier must have been from  _ that very evening _ . Coincidentally, Armie’s hand discovers the same thing. His hand slides over the rough stubbly lace onto the smooth satin, and the thought of Timmy walking in, straddling him in these, rubbing oil all over him while these panties were just sitting here, smoothly hugging his cock...it’s too much. Armie’s hand clenches roughly over Timmy’s hip, and Timmy huffs a breathless laugh into Armie’s mouth when he realizes he’s found out. Armie digs his nails right into Timmy’s hip, into the soft flesh where he knows Timmy’s most ticklish, and he hears Timmy yelp now and feels him jump beneath his hand.

 

“Your turn now,” Armie murmurs roughly. “Lay down. On your back. And get out of those fucking sweatpants.”

 

“Yes sir,” Timmy murmurs, and shoots Armie a look that’s seductive on the surface and playful beneath. Armie sighs, shakes his head.  _ What fucking luck _ , he thinks as he slips to the bathroom, wets a towel, slides it in broad stripes across his back to remove the rapidly cooling oil. He tosses it in the laundry bin, grabs another and dries off, and is headed back to the bedroom when his eyes fall on the kitchen doorway, just off to the left, and he has an idea of his own.

 

When he returns to the bedroom, though, there’s a good five seconds when he can’t remember any ideas at all. Timmy has removed the sweatpants, as Armie asked, and for good measure his T-shirt. He’s on his back in the center of the bed, legs spread but not too wide, arms above his head, eyes closed. The only splash of color on his lean limbs is the violet silk of the panties, laying flat across his pelvis and around his hip bones, the cream lace trim cupping his waist and thighs, disappearing into the space between his legs where a few stray hairs curl through the holes in the lace. Timmy’s cock is so hard Armie can almost see it throbbing through the fabric, pulsing against the small wet spot it’s already created at the highest point of the silk, right below Timmy’s navel. But Timmy’s trying to breathe through it, trying so hard to maintain control so that he’ll have it to give away again to Armie, and the thought flashes through Armie’s mind again.  _ What fucking luck _ . He shakes his head to clear the thought. He’s got work to do.

 

“Hold still, baby,” Armie whispers, and Timmy knows what this means, knows to keep his hands above his head and his eyes closed. Armie shifts Timmy’s legs until they’re wide enough apart that he can sit comfortably between them, nestles himself, and flips the bottle in his hand open with a soft  _ snick _ . He can see a quirk of curiosity flit over Timmy’s face but it’s followed immediately by a wave of trust that makes Armie smile, gently, softly, unseen but felt.

 

Then it’s his turn to drizzle the liquid in his hand onto Timmy’s torso. The chocolate syrup is cooler to the touch than Timmy’s hot oil had been, and at the first touch of the cool liquid Timmy gasps. He’s a good boy for Armie, though, holds still, keeps his eyes closed, and only shows his stress by sucking his lower lip back between his teeth. His breath whistles a little as he exhales, and there’s a stuttering giggle at the end of his breath as the cool syrup tickles near his ribs.

 

Armie can hear his penmanship teacher’s voice in his head as he moves his hand in swirling loops, using true cursive and writing in a single unbroken line. He’s had to choose a small phrase, Timmy’s not a broad man after all, and after just a handful of letters his work is complete. He sits back to admire it.

 

“Je t’aime,” Timmy sighs. “That’s what you wrote, isn’t it?”

 

Armie snickers fondly, hooks his thumbs under the waistband of the violet panties, starts to rub back and forth along Timmy’s waistline. “Yeah, it is.” His voice is still hoarse from lust. “And you did so well. Look at me, baby.”

 

Timmy’s green eyes fly open and when they lock on Armie he feels like he’s sliding into sheets still warm from a dryer. It’s all-encompassing. “Je t’aime aussi,” Timmy murmurs, but whatever words he might have said next are lost as Armie bends to his torso and runs his tongue over the chocolate calligraphy, erasing most of the words but taking them inside him instead, tasting the salt of Timmy’s sweat mixed with the chocolate, and as his tongue dips low to capture the parts of the words right above Timmy’s waistband Timmy starts babbling.

 

“Fuckfuckfuck, baise-moi, Armie, god, I want you, j’ai envie de toi, prends-moi,  _ fuck, please _ .” The last two words come out in a whine as Timmy snaps his hips up into Armie’s hands, pushing the skin of his pelvis against Armie’s mouth,  _ hard _ , and finally Armie surrenders, lifts his head from Timmy’s stomach, pushes open the folds of the sarong to give his cock the freedom it’s been seeking since he knelt between Timmy’s legs. He smacks his cock lightly against Timmy’s, still constrained as it is by the purple silk, and then smiles elatedly and grabs the rough lace in his fingers and just  _ tears _ , ripping the silk and lace from one of Timmy’s legs and leaving it dangling uselessly to the side, barely holding on around Timmy’s left thigh. He lines up their cocks again, skin to skin this time, and Timmy just moans and dissolves into the pillows, head rolling to one side as Armie grabs their cocks in one hand, strokes a few times slowly, then snakes his hand down below Timmy’s balls, teasing, moving one and then two fingers in a slow circle around Timmy’s tight hole.

 

The sensation there coupled with silk rubbing against him all day brings Timmy’s orgasm on suddenly, without warning. He bites the pillow and mutters  _ oui-oui-oui _ against it and the sight of it brings Armie over the edge too, the feel of Timmy’s come in his hand mixing with his own and shooting onto Timmy’s stomach, where traces of the chocolate syrup still linger. He shudders, holding their cocks together as they pant and normalize their breathing, and then Armie bends to kiss Timmy’s stomach, loving the salt of both their release mixing with the chocolate. When Timmy sees what Armie’s doing he grabs Armie playfully by the back of the neck, pulls him in for kiss, giggles as he pulls away.

 

“Amour sucré,” Timmy mutters against Armie’s chest. “Bon anniversaire.”

 

They’re both asleep in a matter of seconds.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr, come say hi!


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